


please dont leave bridles on horses

by quenive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: General fluff, M/M, and horse discussions, and horses, but its mostly fluff, kind of deals with depression so a very vague tw i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: sometimes we just have to sit down, tilt our hats, and let our green snake alien godsend boyfriends hold us while we brood





	please dont leave bridles on horses

**Author's Note:**

> a quick before-you-read:
> 
> 1\. im heavily against horse sports, and it shows
> 
> 2\. worldbuilding doesnt exist in this timeline
> 
> 3\. there are times you just crave very specifics fics that no one wrote before. be your own 3am content creator. pull that shit. love it.
> 
> that is all, thank you <3

"...but I say, if you cannot train a horse bitless, then you do not deserve to train a horse at all. That is my stance, Dirk."

You stretch your legs out on the soft, luscious green grass of the pasture. His little ramble went on long enough for you to lose track of his words, but the sound of your name snapped you back. You tilt your cap down to shade your face (even though you're technically leaning against a short tree with an equally luscious head shrub shading you from the merciless UV rays of the heartless sun), and lean your head onto his shoulder. He doesn't see you fluttering your eyelashes at him.

"Is that so?" He also doesn't see the eyebrow raise.

"Indubitably," he says with an exclamatory 'mhm!' almost physically touchable in his tone. "To train a horse, you must get the horse to listen to you. To get a horse to listen to you, you must listen to the horse. To listen to the horse, you must understand the language which it speaks. And a horse cannot speak verbally. A horse will not hesitate to hoof you to back the fuck off, were you brain-dead enough to jack with its funky flow. We can all agree that an equine's funky flow is no laughing matter, asshat."

"Digressing, are we?" you question while your palm rubs soft circles on his abdomen. His hand settles atop yours. An absent motion, both the comfortable hand hold and his thumb rubbing over your knuckles, wary of claws. 

In the far distance, a whinny erupts. It echoes. You don't raise your head, but you feel his turn into the direction of the sound. He presses your hand to stop its circling and intertwines your fingers, gives it a gentle squeeze. 

"Right. Dooky."

You snort and press your lips to his shoulder. The brim of your cap gets fucked up when it hits his temples, almost falling off with the dumb pressure of the dumb consequences of your dumb actions. You're tired. He takes the cap off and puts it on your lap. Some of your sweat soaked hair sticks to your skin. The breeze is more than welcome even if it's a little too much on your ears.

"Their communication is non-verbal. I have taken a large interest in observing their body language. And flicking through it, like an outdated magazine on the john when you forget to bring your mobile with you. You're no different from putrid cave dwellers, except that you now possess profound horse knowledge."

"Are you just bored on the toilet, or is your newfound passion genuine?" you mumble into his shoulder. Wow, talking is.. horrible. His efforts are enviable, amusing, and highly welcome. As you talk, your spit seems to soak his lightly scaled skin, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Like, don't get me wrong. I can totally nab a shovel and dig your current horse fixation. But why?"

"Because in the end, the magazine you've read covers to covers proved to be better reading material than whatever garbage you find on your phone online. And so the horse has been studied. The student packs up his material. After revision, he leaves sated and satisfied, returning frequently for a new dosage of the smarts."

"To the bathroom?"

"To the bathroom." Another whinny, a much louder one, follows his confirmation like scripted. He doesn't jerk his head this time in favor of leaning it onto yours. You didn't before, so you squeeze his hand back now while your lips slowly do something that vaguely resembles a long kiss. Something that should be effortless. But it isn't. 

"Dude," you sigh against his skin and turn your head to put your cheek where your mouth was. It's coated in spit. You don't seem to mind. 

When there's enough silence between the thing you just croaked out and the yet to come continuation, you make due by throwing a leg over his, bare toes reaching far enough to graze the prosthetic on his other one. It's hot. It would have been hotter than a deserted car belt buckle if he kept lounging under the sun. From toes to foot, through the leg and directly to your heart, the realization that he chose your shade over his sun makes you feel more content than you have been by his side. Your chest is warm too, and not just because you're sticky and gross and sweating up a storm already.

"Have you.. have you ever like, even touched a horse?" you finally continue, already knowing the answer. The ones lingering around here are too wild for petting. The herd, however, is more or less used to your presence under this specific tree by now. They keep their distance as long as you do, you try to be as predictable as possible. Like he said; it's non-verbal, but you get each other with the same amount of understanding as generic tea time chatter with a colleague. 

"I have seen a great number of videos, and have studied a great deal of general equine mannerism. I would know how to handle one properly, if I ever got a hold of it."

He sounds like he's slow-falling back to Earth, back from his hay induced horse high. You gather your energy to nuzzle at his cheek.

"You so could. Bet none of those pretentious eventers have shit on you. That halo above your head is so fucking bright man, the equestrian world's itching to crawl after the new leading light. Word's out, I hear it's green and red and kinda hot in full English riding apparel."

"I agree." The tone is back. It makes you smile for honest to fuck the first time in hours. "It is also sidling suspenders back into fashion. If you're going to be training, you might as well indulge in profligate clothing." Speaking of which, his are already shimmied off and stretched along the grass, still buckled to his pants. Your top suits him nicely. It's loose, a darker shade of brown, and he's almost literally swimming in it. 

"Implying they were ever out of fashion. Aren't you just like, going to get shunned from their pony abuse society, or, like.. Fuck. Whatever, I guess." Your face is smushed up against his. It's getting more difficult to not let your thoughts drift away. But that warmth in your chest evaporated like it isn't the weirdest phrasing ever, and you're left with the intense need to reheat that cardinal oven.

"I have an intense dislike towards traditional dressage, Dirk. I've been honing my mineral pile for days. If galluses defile their "craft" then it was defiled long before I rubbed my filthy mittens on it."

It isn't really what you were referring to, but you don't correct him. You also don't see yourself correcting him any time soon.

He lets go of your hand. You retract it to wipe some sweat off on your shirt, heavily scrunching it up in the process. You leave it there while fisting the soft fabric like it's something you're clinging onto for life itself. Caliborn doesn't do the same, or anything similar. Instead he cups your cheek to gently guide you away far enough for your eyes to lock. You feel your own sweat from his hand on your cheek. If you look miserable, you hope he doesn't bring it up.

"Still bad?" he asks. You just press into his touch, wordlessly urging him to pet at your cheek like a cat longing for bondage. Bonding, asterisk. There's evident worry in his eyes. You really do look miserable, don't you? 

"Mhmm." Your hum is gentle and the grip on your shirt tightens. 

It's just one of those days. One of those days, nothing you couldn't handle before. Don't really want to imagine how tight your knuckles are with how hard you're abusing your shirt, skin already getting chafed by the normally comfortable fabric now turning into a weapon of mass carnage. Deep breath. You urge your grip to loosen and your palm slides over your stomach to straighten the thing up. It dips into your lap so you can lift the cap and gently plant it on his head. Sideways, magnum douchebag-esque. Oddly attractive. 

"Maybe if you kiss me I'll get my crusty toad ass to morph into a poofy prince ass again, or something," you suggest, half jokingly, half genuinely seeking contact and validating touches. 

He rubs his hand up your cheek and into your hair. His nails scratch at your scalp but it's more soothing than uncomfortable, basically vaguely similar to what the doctor ordered. As luck would have it, you are your very own medical professional. 

Then his hand slides to the back of your head, nudging you forward. Your foreheads touch, you exhale a soft breath through your mouth. 

"Magic is fake," he blurts out, oddly soft for his vocal cords.

"It's pseudo science." Your reply is followed up by you pressing your lips onto the edge of his. Predictable. Being a cryptic dipshit isn't on today's to-do list, sadly. 

He replies to your reply by turning his head just a bit for your lips to connect. His mouth isn't as soft and vulnerable as yours is, but it might as well be. Yours is treated with the utmost caution and care and once they part, his tongue gets well acquainted with yours. Delicately. Its texture is different, slick yet ridged, being forked makes it all the more interesting to explore. He smells like baby powder for some reason, you smile into the lazy smooch. 

As absent as your mind allows it to be your hand settles on his chest. Your other arm wedges itself between the tree and him. The bark digs into your skin, pricks at it with sentient like integrity, gets on your nerves heavier than persistent mosquitoes (which, as you recall, have kept biting you throughout this episode), but you shove that shit into the deepest darkest corners of your mind's vault. It's gone. Doesn't bother you.

When you part, you lick your lips. Cherub spit residue is always one hell of a sensation, but you're not sure is it just because it's foreign mouth fluids or anything, well, alien related. You wonder does he ever feel the same.

When he does a humorously timed blep, your curiosity has too been sated, for the time being.

"Any better?" he asks while his fingers lovingly brush through your disgusting, sweaty hair.

"Ribbit?" You enhance both vowels, and give him a heavy T in the end. His thin, skeletal lips purse up at you, and you'd much rather sink into his chest than let him read your shadeless eyes like this. But you still put on your brave boy face, and face the fact right to his face.

"No," you continue. "Lame excuse to get your mouth on mine."

"You don't need a reason for me to kiss you," a little perplexed, he straightens his back up a bit against the tree.

You pull your arm away, now very much aware of the bark's revenge. You're more laying than you're sitting at this point, back where his ass is, for comparison. A long, immovable lug you are, now striving to tangle your legs together. He obliges and indulges, allowing you to curl up to his side and pretend you're smaller than him for a short while, to get your head on his chest and his arm around you. Warm clothes be damned, as you're closer to his skin, you're closer to the cold blood coursing through him. Your personal oasis in a Sahara of despair. If therapy snakes were a thing he'd be, hands down, the best one in the business. With a little vest. And a harness.

"I'm aware. Thanks for humoring me, though."

Half lidded, your eyes scan the far horizon. The herd has made progress in inching closer, and is now in eye view with the head stallion visibly wary, ears up and neck tense. They're closer than usual. He seems to be glaring at you on first glance, but the second one confirms that he's more curious than bloodthirsty. You lift a thumbs up.

"Yes. Do you think we should leave apples next time? So they can gorge themselves on fruit while inhaling our leftover scent. It would be a nice association. This smell equals food. Food equals comfort."

"We are comfortable."

"That we are," his hand's rubbing your back, in between the collarbones, up the nape of your neck where the short, sweat-moist neck hairs peek out. Proving the statement correct, you see.

Pleasant silence washes over you. You still feel kind of gross, left to wonder why the hell empty, irrational feelings pick the worst moments to topple over you. Like neck naked vultures stripping an already dead carcass of its last pieces of flesh. Already dead carcass. You're a miracle worker today.

It happens, you guess. At least it's happening where you're most comfortable. Deep, vulnerable sigh.

"You're welcome," he finally adds, and you are more content than you really, honestly were before this. Not purely, but getting there.


End file.
